


Waiting for God's Own

by StealthKaiju



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Missing Scene, Short & Sweet, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 12:13:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19150822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StealthKaiju/pseuds/StealthKaiju
Summary: ‘They’ll kill us,’ Crowley said, tone devoid of emotion. ‘Ultimate disobedience – ultimate court martial.’ He took of his glasses, and gave Aziraphale that small crooked smile (that he never gave to anyone else). ‘At least yours will be quick.’Aziraphale harrumphed. ‘Unlikely. It will be private and somewhere it won’t make a mess, but Gabriel and Michael will want it to be painful.’‘I thought your lot were the good lot.’‘No, they are Good,’ replied Aziraphale, stressing the word, ‘with a capital G, meaning it’s a title and not a descriptor.’Crowley met Aziraphale’s gaze. ‘Fuck,’ he said quietly.Aziraphale’s smile was brittle. ‘Yes, bit of an inconvenience, isn’t it?’





	Waiting for God's Own

**Author's Note:**

> Set between the Apocalypse and the Aftermath (between episodes 5-6, please don't read if you haven't watched the finale yet)

_“When all is faced and all is done, ye must choose your faces wisely, for soon enouff you will be playing with fyre.”_ _[sic erat scriptum_ ]

 

‘They’ll kill us,’ Crowley said, tone devoid of emotion. ‘Ultimate disobedience – ultimate court martial.’ He took of his glasses, and gave Aziraphale that small crooked smile (that he never gave to anyone else). ‘At least yours will be quick.’

 

Aziraphale harrumphed. ‘Unlikely. It will be private and somewhere it won’t make a mess, but Gabriel and Michael will want it to be painful.’

 

‘I thought your lot were the good lot.’

 

‘No, they are _Good_ ,’ replied Aziraphale, stressing the word, ‘with a capital G, meaning it’s a title and not a descriptor.’

 

Crowley met Aziraphale’s gaze. ‘Fuck,’ he said quietly.

 

Aziraphale’s smile was brittle. ‘Yes, bit of an inconvenience, isn’t it?’

 

Crowley leaned back into the leather armchair, and reached for the glass of wine. ‘We could run away.’ He took a sip of his drink. ‘Maybe  _now_ we could take that long, scenic tour of the universe for the next few millennia.’ His other hand reached for another piece of turkish delight, and then popped it into his mouth. He closed his eyes, letting it dissolve on his tongue. He reckoned, based on his extensive experience with hell’s bureaucracy, he’d have a little over ten hours before they got to him, but he was going to enjoy every moment – every taste, every sound, every touch – before then. ‘Or just go on the bender to end all benders.’

 

He waited for a response from his friend, but there was none. He opened his eyes, and found Aziraphale was no longer paying attention, but staring intently at the lit candle on the table. Crowley could only catch the odd word being mumbled. Something about fire… and faces?

 

The angel jumped up so suddenly that Crowley was startled, nearly spilling the wine over himself. ‘What?’ he exclaimed.

 

‘Agnes Nutter,’ Aziraphale said proudly, as if this was any sort of explanation. ‘She said choose your faces… what if they don’t kill me, and they don’t kill you?’

 

Crowley rolled his eyes, knowing it always annoyed the angel when he did. ‘That doesn’t… you what?’

 

Aziraphale began to pace behind the chair, backwards and forwards, steady as a pendulum. ‘What if,’ he began slowly, ‘my side don’t kill me because they don’t have me… they have you?’

 

Crowley downed the rest of the wine in his glass, and then picked up the bottle. ‘How is it that I’m the one drinking this, but I’m not the one that’s talking bollocks?’

 

Aziraphale just smiled calmly. ‘If you are me, and I am you, then what they’ll do will be the wrong way round.’

 

Crowley drank the rest of the wine, straight from the bottle. ‘Okay, start that again, from the actual beginning, not from whatever point you got to in your head.’

 

‘How do you kill a demon, their actual spirit not their form, make sure that they won’t ever come back?’

 

‘Holy water,’ said Crowley, thinking very briefly of Ligur, then shaking the image away like a wet dog.

 

‘Exactly. And for an angel, hellfire.’

 

It only took a few seconds for Crowley to work out what Aziraphale meant, as he knew him so well. ‘But if we took the other one’s place, the punishment wouldn’t hurt us at all.’

 

Aziraphale came to stand before his chair, and took the empty bottle, placing it carefully on the table. ‘I will pretend to be you, and you pretend to be me,’ he stated. ‘Let them catch us, and let them try to kill us.’

 

Crowley stared intently back at Aziraphale, calculating. Would it work? ‘Do you think you could pretend to be me that convincingly?’

 

Aziraphale put his hands on his hips and tutted. ‘I can imitate that slithering swagger of yours, if that’s what you mean.’ He held up a finger. ‘I was a highly acclaimed stage actor, only a century or so ago.’

 

‘Yes, but this has slightly higher stakes than a Gilbert and Sullivan doesn't it?’ Crowley said snarkily.

 

Aziraphale knelt at his feet, and took his hands in his. ‘I know you, my friend,’ he said softly. ‘I know everything you are. And you know me.’ He bent his head and lightly kissed Crowley’s palm. ‘I have faith Crowley,’ he whispered.  ‘Faith in us. In you.’

 

The sincerity of those words hit Crowley with the force of the flood that had levelled mountains, and he closed his eyes as if it would protect him against it. Of all the stupid, stupid, wonderful things to say…

 

He did know Aziraphale. Knew how his fussiness and fastidiousness seemed to other people, how it shielded a careful and meticulous nature. Where other angels saw his ‘softness’ as a weakness, he knew it was a gentleness that still had the undercurrent of a strong, unbreakable will.

 

Aziraphale was not a warrior. To issue him with a flaming sword had been one of God’s stranger ideas, what had she been thinking? You didn’t want him to fight for you; he was the type you wanted to make a cup of tea for you and listen to you. He was not the one to run headlong into glory, or violence, or other people. He was the one that held people’s hands while they died on the battlefield, speaking in hushed tones, listening to last words.

 

Because anyone could be powerful, couldn’t they? Look at all those angels, and those demons, rising the ranks (or falling, in hell’s case), showing off how strong they were, how ruthless. Yet, it took more strength to be kind, didn’t it?

 

So, yes, he knew Aziraphale.

 

He leaned forward, and drew out a hand to lift Aziraphale’s chin so their lips could meet in a soft kiss, a gentle covenant. ‘It might work. Not like it’s the end of the world if it doesn’t.’


End file.
